Through The Naughty Knothole

My neighbor watches me masturbate through a knothole in the fence separating his property from mine. I pretend not to notice. He is a new and welcome addition to a neighborhood teeming with unfulfilled and gossiping housewives and is rumored to be a writer, reclusive and aloof. We have never spoken. In fact, I have yet to even introduce myself, but I feel no one else knows me as intimately as he. With him watching, I am shamelessly uninhibited and brazen in my sexual self- indulgence and, I’ll admit, the performance is no longer just for his benefit alone. Though not an exhibitionist in the true sense of the word, I am a shameful show off if invited to be, so it’s no wonder that what began as innocently as a nude sunbathing session has since turned into a mutual masturbation fest of ritualistic proportions – a wicked craving neither of us seems able to satisfy on our own, without the other watching, panting to the rhythm of our hands and crying out in unison with the release of our need. It is an act made magic by our anonymity and I have ceased looking for the wrong in an experience so liberating. It was a searing July afternoon the first time I spotted the eyeball at what is now its customary knothole and, in fact, thought the heat must be affecting my eyesight. I blinked behind large, dark glasses only to find the eyeball blinking back and my initial reaction was anger, instant and instinctive. I sat up from the reclined position I had settled into not long before, intending to give my peeping Tom, Dick or Harry an earful for his intrusive rudeness. However, somewhere between sitting up and covering up, I misplaced my indignation and a devilish plan began to form in my mind as I reached instead for the bottle of tanning lotion I had placed on the deck beside me. If my new neighbor wanted to look then I was going to give him something to look at. The sun’s rays had warmed the oil and it formed a heated puddle in the palm of my hand. Setting the bottle back down, I pressed both palms together and relished the sleek feeling of the tropical scented liquid as it gushed through my fingers and slid down my wrists. Having not yet formed a concrete plan, I applied the oil first to my arms, one and then the other, slowly massaging it into my darkening skin while deciding my next course of action. But the progression of events that followed were more the result of something very basic and carnal rather than carefully thought out planning. Lying back against the chair’s partially raised head, I reached for the bottle a second time and squeezed its slick contents onto my stomach where it pooled in my belly button and ran lazily down my bare sides. Daring another glance at the fence through the tinted lenses of my sunglasses, I saw, with some satisfaction, that the disembodied eye still remained at the knothole. Good, I thought, I’d captured his attention. Now, I just needed to keep it. Dipping an index finger into the fragrant pool on my belly, I let it trail, first upward and then outward, slowly and methodically creating a star like pattern across my stomach. I was beginning to warm to my little game and hoped my vigilant voyeur would sense my excitement, taking some of it on as his own. Again I dipped my finger into the oil, this time lifting my hand until it hovered just above my left breast, one glistening bead of honey colored oil clinging to its pad. I licked my lips, hopeful that my face would convey my anticipation as I watched the bead of oil slowly elongate until finally it loosened its grip in surrender to gravity’s inevitability, splashing onto a nipple already hard with expectation. I let my head fall back and a soft sigh escaped my barely parted lips as the sun, high in an azure sky, singed the oil-coated nipple and flicked silky tongues of heat along the oil’s slick path as it trailed its way down the soft sides of my breast. The stillness of the day caused even the slightest of sounds to echo and carry and I thought, at that moment, that I heard breathing, labored and heavy, coming from the opposite side of the fence. Encouraged, I repeated the process giving my right breast the same delightfully torturous treatment I’d given its partner while picturing my panting peeper leaning into his side of the fence, one arm extended – up with palm flat – supporting his body as he bent to peek through the knothole. His other hand, I imagined, would be resting at his side for the time being, idle and forlorn. I smiled to myself and decided it was time to really give him something to look at and, hopefully, something to do with that other hand. Cupping each large and pendulous breast in a well oiled palm, I delighted in their fullness, lifting them to my eager mouth where I rubbed the slippery nipples over lips parched and sun kissed before greedily sucking first one and then the other into my fevered mouth. They tasted of coconuts and I suckled and lapped at each erect mound until I’d licked them clean. Greedily, I reached down to where oil still pooled in my navel and scooped as much as I could into both hands before placing them over my still needy breasts, gently massaging more oil into them. Instantly, my nipples hardened again and I rolled each one between finger and thumb, aware then of an insistent stirring between my legs – my body’s none too subtle way of telling me there were other areas in need of attention. Through eyes, droopy from sun and an ever-increasing pleasure, I watched as my legs spread, seemingly of their own volition, and reached yet again for the bottle of sunning oil, dribbling a few drops onto my fingers before letting them glide lightly over the downy blonde patch between my legs. Swirling the glistening oil through the closely cropped fine hairs I was reminded of early morning grass shimmering wetly and dripping with dew and I fancied that, from his side of the fence, my snatch-seeking snooper had a clear view of my newly exposed pussy. He would, I envisioned, be tugging at the waistband of his shorts with a now diligent hand, pulling and wriggling until the restricting garment puddled around his feet. The thought of him standing there, his body almost as exposed as my own, left me feeling a bit breathless, or it may have been because of my fingers were gently stroking the soft lips my parted legs had revealed. Either way, I had absolutely, unequivocally, warmed to the game and knew my body would not have allowed me to turn back even if my mind had said stop, which, for the record, it didn’t. With each feather like stroke, my pussy lips swelled, spreading wide to reveal the prize nestled beneath their velvety wings and I was reminded then of a time when I had played with myself in front of a mirror, wanting to see what my pussy looked like when it was being finger fucked. I had often wondered if it looked as good as it felt and, with the help of a full-length mirror, was sinfully delighted to discover that it did. Behind eyelids I’d not realized I’d closed, I imagined my wicked watchman, attentive now, his soft cock beginning to harden against the palm of his un-callused hand – a writer’s hand. Effortlessly, it would glide over the smooth surface of his cock, reaching down to cup and knead his knobby balls. When my fingers found the treasure they’d been seeking I felt my clit swell with un-spilled juices and, once again, I flashed back to the night I’d watched myself masturbate, seeing clearly the pink pearl of my clit, swollen and ready to burst. I knew that if I allowed my fingers to continue their teasing I would surely explode as I’d done on that past occasion and that wouldn’t do, not yet anyway, for the game had just begun and I had other tantalizing tricks in store for my audience of one. And so, with some reluctance, I abandoned my throbbing pleasure button to explore new territory, silently promising to return when my need for fun no longer outweighed my need for release. Slowly, as if coming out of a deep sleep, I opened my eyes and searched the fence’s surface for proof that my audience had remained attentive throu
ghout my ope
ning performance. I needn’t have worried for there it was, that lone eyeball, still staring transfixed through the same knothole. By now I was sure its owner’s own juices were churning, causing his balls to tighten and constrict. His cock would be hard, I imagined, and pictured it, long and thick, in his slow stroking hand. By then, the fingers of my own hand had found their way to the opening of my cunt and I allowed three of them to wriggle their way inside while resting my thumb, gently, against the still swollen hood of my clit. Instantly, my pussy tightened its muscles around my probing fingers, clenching and unclenching as they began a slow and rhythmic pumping. In, as far as they could go, reaching for the magic button inside that would release a scorching flood, and out, just enough to leave me, and my pussy, panting for more. From his side of the fence, my peeking pud puller was doing some panting of his own and I could hear, quite clearly this time, his breathing coming in short, rapid bursts. Aroused as never before and feeling powerful in a way I’d never experienced, I dipped the middle finger of my free hand into the open bottle of oil and, while continuing to finger fuck my pussy, I spread my legs wider, bending them at the knee and pulling them back until each knee rested next to a flushed cheek before sliding to an almost horizontal position on the lounger. Another fuck hole was crying out in aching need and I inserted the newly oiled finger into my ass, immediately feeling those muscles tighten too, squeezing my finger as it glided in and out, in and out, and in and out again to the same rhythm as the fingers fucking my cunt. Abandoning myself to the sheer physical pleasure of it all, I threw my head back and rocked with the motion of my fucking all the while picturing my naughty neighbor feverishly pumping his, by now, rock hard cock. I imagined the head of his dick, flushed pink and throbbing with an aching need for release that matched that of my own quivering loins and I squealed in delight at the picture the two of us must have made – each on our respective sides of the fence, fucking ourselves with open and wild abandon. He would no longer be standing in the puddle of his shorts, I imagined, but would have stepped from them, straddling them, his legs firmly planted and his hips thrusting forward, rocking with the motion of his stroking hand and wanting to throw his head back and let out a cry for the cathartic release of his load. I visualized myself kneeling before him, my expectant mouth eagerly awaiting its reward while he pumped and pulled and stroked his throbbing cock. My tongue would flick out intermittently, licking at the head, tempting and teasing it to release its tasty load. I confess the vision was more than I could bare and I came then, squirting hot and hard and long, my own cries echoing throughout the neighborhood. But I wasn’t through yet and hoped my watchful writer wasn’t either. Continuing to finger fuck my ass, I returned, as promised, to my neglected clit and smeared it with my pussy’s molten juices before slapping it, hard enough to sting. A white hot stream spurted like water from a whale’s blow hole and I pictured my untouchable lover in the final throes of his own deliverance, his seed splattering against the fence in great milky globs that slid languidly down the fence’s surface to disappear into the grass, lost forever. Sweating and spent, I let my legs drop from their raised position to rest on either side of the lounger where I lay, panting and weak. The vinyl strips of the chair, like my fingers, were slippery, a combination of oil and orgasm, and I couldn’t resist giving my lone audience member one last curtain call before calling it quits. Wiggling my butt around on the slick chair, I made soft mewling sounds as I licked each finger clean, smacking my lips and laughing at my own inventiveness. From across the fence came my applause, a loud moan full of longing for an encore he had no energy for and I smiled, sitting up and retrieving the half empty bottle of sun tan oil. The towel I had availed myself of before settling on the lounger such a short time ago hung, forgotten, on the deck’s railing and I retrieved it as well not bothering to cover up with it for at that juncture it seemed pointless to put on a show of modesty. Instead, without so much as a glance in the direction of the fence, I carried both items back into the house all the while feeling my satisfied sentinel’s still hungry stare as I stepped through the doorway. Inside, I soothed my feverish skin with a quick, cool shower before daydreaming my way through dinner preparations and the end of the day return of my family. There was something intensely intimate about my encounter of that afternoon and the intoxicating effects lasted well into the evening. Later that night in bed, lulled by my husband’s rhythmic breathing and the steady hum of a floor fan, I touched myself. And, let my fingers evoke images of skillfully clever ways to capture and hold the attention of my Naughty Knothole Peeper for many weeks to come.